


Honey, I'm Good

by wearethewitches



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexuality Spectrum, Capitol Citizens, F/F, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Gen, M/M, The Capitol, Victors as a Family, greysexual effie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-04 00:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13353087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: Effie Trinket is the daughter of Coriolanus Snow - but that changes nothing, except perhaps Haymitch.





	Honey, I'm Good

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Invictus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3300395) by [EllanaSan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllanaSan/pseuds/EllanaSan). 



Euphemia Trinket is three years old when she first meets her father for the first time.

He’s different from the man who is raising her – he smells like flowers and something tangy, that tastes like the back of her throat when she loses her first tooth. But he has blue eyes like Effie that sparkle and soft hands that lead her and her sister, Aquilia, into his rose gardens.

Galene Trinket sits and has tea with them later, talking to their father while Effie plays with Victorines on the low, glass table, Aquilia wrinkling her nose when Effie steals away her Mags Flanagan figurine. _Give it back,_ she cries, knocking over the tea-set. Galene shrieks and Effie gets fruity, purple tea all over her dress that smells like blackberry and sugar – but she keeps the Victorine in her grasp and when she looks up at her father, she smiles because he’s looking at her like something is very funny.

As the years go by, Effie distinguishes her two fathers by calling them by separate names. _Papa_ is the man who raises her with Mother, with curly cotton-pink hair and dark skin, bright red lips always tilted in a small smile when he looks at her. Papa is the one who pulls her onto his knee inside his study and teaches her the difference between magenta and fuchsia, when he isn’t reading from paper books, soothing her to sleep with stories from the Dark Days.

 _Daddy_ , however, is the man who smells like blood and roses, with pale skin and white hair. He made it a fashion statement when he began to grey, he told Effie when she was young and curious. Daddy is always busy, only able to be seen in evenings and in the spring holidays. Effie always feels a rush when she spends time with him, one only heightened by the _secrecy._

“You must not tell people how you know me,” he says to both Effie and Aquilia, when they are seven and eight. His hair is as white as the rose on his lapel. “Undoubtedly, they will find out – they always do, in the end – but the citizens of the Capitol will find out on my terms.”

“Why is it important?” Aquilia questions, wrinkling her nose the way their mother hates her doing. Effie reaches over, poking her side and she stops, if only to glare at Effie.

“Because,” their father interrupts, “I am President Snow and you are my daughters.”

It doesn’t make much of an impact then. Only as Effie grows up, going to the best young ladies school in the Capitol and making acquaintances, learning about the world and becoming more aware, does she come to understand what that means. _The President’s daughter_. Euphemia Trinket becomes a person that parents tell their teenage sons and daughters to befriend, while Effie is left to sort friend from foe.

“They’ll try to seduce you,” Mother says, thwacking Aquilia with a folded fan – the trending accessory right now, according to Papa – when she tries to brush her words aside. “They will try to seduce you, only for your father. They will use you until your father has had enough of it and leaves you aside – and then you will be left too, by the one you thought could be trusted.”

Effie listens to what her mother says about life, even if she doesn’t listen when it comes to her hair or her looks. Papa is the editor – the one who knows the fashion industry inside out and shapes the Capitol’s opinions with his magazines and talk shows. When Papa says, _Effie, my lovely girl, you **must** try this designer, she’s going to be all the rage this coming season_ , Effie listens and tries the designer. When Papa says, _Effie, my scrumptious darling, you **need** to stop going along with this fad, it’s coming to an end swiftly, _ Effie does away with it.

However, when it comes to Mother? When it comes to Galene…

“Barthelonius Maralina’s daughter is a leech and a vicious climber, just like her father – stay away from her unless you want to be forever immortalised in a scandal on the cover of _Capitol Frights_ ,” Mother says to Aquilia and it is Effie who starts the vicious rumour about Thelonina’s dirty love-life, so Aquilia will stop accepting her advancements in fear of catching something.

“That Hennlis boy who just joined your youth club, I think I know his mother. I’d love to reconnect, if she managed to become a Gamemaker like she wanted – oh, she’d be the perfect kind of connection, Euphemia,” she says, Effie taking the cue and charming the boy into exchanging contact details. A month later, after attending several parties together, including her birthday celebration, thirteen-year old Effie sees his mothers card inside Galene’s purse.

Of course, that connection becomes slightly useful a few months down the road, when her father – _President Snow, Coriolanus, when did I start calling him that in my head instead of Daddy?_ – asks what she knows of the Hunger Games over dinner.

“Not as much as I should,” Effie states, remembering the gruesome Quarter Quell, which she had watched with the soon-to-be-horrified fervour of an eleven year old girl. It was the first Games she had watched from start to finish and actually found herself wondering about the process. “But,” she continues, “I do know the son of one of the Junior Gamemakers, Hennlis Reecher?”

“Reecher is a good connection,” Coriolanus nods approvingly, even though Effie doesn’t know whether he means the son or the mother – but that doesn’t matter, because her father is _approving_ of her.

“Daddy, are you proud of me?” Effie dares to ask, before correcting herself when she glances at Aquilia. “Us?”

“Keep making connections, Euphemia,” Coriolanus orders calmly, spearing a slice of meat with his fork, eating perfectly. _Perfection, you must be perfection, Euphemia,_ Mother’s voice echoes in her head. Effie straightens, copying her fathers poise and calm as they consume dinner. “Perhaps they will get you somewhere.”

Later, when Effie curls up in her bed in the Mansion, her Daddy’s greenhouse visible through her window, she replays the highlights of the Quarter Quell on her screen and wonders, _what can I do? How do I get to be the person behind this?_

From Hennlis, she learns more about the Games and at some point, they pass the usual line of _close acquaintance._ Hennlis – _Henn_ , as he asks her to call him, while she likewise lets him call her _Effie,_ the first of what would eventually become many – spends so much time with her that Galene worries over it.

“He isn’t from a terribly prestigious family, Euphemia…”

“I’m the President’s daughter,” Effie replies, “and we’re just friends, Mother.”

Effie’s skillset, however, turns out not to be quite Gamemaker material. Henn’s is, apparently. He knows geography and programming.

“I’m going to be a Gamemaker, one day,” he states. Effie, still pouting over how she won’t be, briefly thanks the Capitol that her best friend is just as Games-obsessed as she is. A rerun of the forty-eighth Hunger Games plays in the background of their talking and occasionally, Henn pauses the recording, pointing out a Gamemaker trap.

“You can see it,” Henn says, “look. The Tribute is unwittingly hiding beneath the cause of their potential death.”

“How can you see it? What is it?” Effie questions, propping up her chin as she frowns at the screen.

“The mountain is fragile – this arena has already seen a rotation of avalanches on each of the three mountains. They’re trying to hide out in this cave-mouth. When the next avalanche comes, they’ll be trapped inside – the only way to get out is to go through.”

The logic of it becomes clear when he explains it. Henn presses play, letting the camera switch to another Tribute – this one from District Two, able to be distinguished by their white shirt. _They have the advantage of camouflage, at least, unlike the poor Twelve Tributes,_ she thinks, the snow almost blinding in the sunlight.

“I wonder who chooses their outfits,” she questions out loud, twirling a crisp, freeze-sprayed lock of purple hair tight around her finger. “I know that they have Stylists during the presentation…”

“Probably organised by a more fabric-inclined Gamemaker,” Henn says, before nudging her with his foot, thin, green eyes blinking in sudden realisation. “That’s what you do! You’re apprenticing with your father, yes?”

“I am,” Effie raises an eyebrow. “What has that got to do with my lack of Games career?”

“You need practice in making leaps of logic, Effie,” Henn says, before explaining. “You know the trends and the correct fashion protocol – you’ve even got an education in textiles. What if, instead of being a Gamemaker, you worked in supplying Tributes? You could be a Stylist! Or- or even an _Escort._ ”

“A Stylist?” Effie frowns. “No. I might have the skills, but I don’t want to be dressing mangy Tributes every year. What would I do in my spare time? Lounge around, waiting for the Victory Tour?”

The thought of being an Escort, comparatively, isn’t so bad – except how there are, quite literally, only twelve positions in the entirety of Panem. Even using her connection to Coriolanus might not get her the job.

“No,” Effie repeats, before sighing. “I came in too late with my Games obsession, Henn. People like you, who have had ambitions since young childhood – you are the ones going to go far. Not me. Perhaps I’ll try modelling, like Aquilia.”

Galene, when approached about the prospect, isn’t so sure. “You’re definitely pretty enough, Euphemia, but not quite a blank slate enough to work with. Aquilia, _now_ , your sister is going to go places.”

It makes Effie angry that her mother doesn’t have faith in her – that she couldn’t make a short, but rich career out of modelling. Her Papa is different. He tells her that she should try it out, if nothing else. Aquilia is still making waves in the modelling industry, even while having been there for two years already.

“You’ll still be apprenticing with me, in any case,” he notes. “Expanding your portfolio is nothing to scoff at.”

 _Expanding my portfolio_ , Effie thinks the sentence over in her head. Henn makes a point in saying that he’s behind on expanding his own, when she hesitates to take the plunge. His words give her the encouragement and the modelling industry becomes her world, for a time. It isn’t what she expected.

Making connections is a given – keeping them is harder. Effie gets to know her sister much better, when they share drugs and booze, fighting for the spotlight when together yet always keeping happy, agreeable faces on. They don’t fight, except in the privacy of their own home – or the Mansion, once, before their daddy slips into the room and silences them with a cold voice, ordering them never to raise their voices against each other again in his home.

“I hate it,” Effie admits to Henn. “It’s- it’s turning me into something I’m not.”

“Then leave,” he says distractedly, focused on his own ambitions.

Effie doesn’t leave, but she does try to shift her own habits about. She tries to take Aquilia with her, but Aquilia is embroiled in it, famous and high half the time, only eighteen but lost to the industry. Effie can imagine it – imagine how it’s sunk its claws into her sister, wondering what Aquilia will do when it rips them out, when Aquilia is older and the spotlight shifts to some new up-and-comer. _I won’t let it have me,_ she decides after she talks to her mother, who agrees and not so subtly tries convincing her to leave.

The key word being, _tries_.

Effie focuses on keeping her connections. The drugs and the booze are left to the sidelines, her arsenal in the face of a tough crowd but not things that can control her. Sleeping pills become her crutch, when the never-ending parties make an insomniac of her, but this is a habit Effie doesn’t mind – it lets her sleep. Sleep is healthy.

Connections. _Keep making connections, Euphemia._ Effie can still remember her daddy’s face when he shut her and Aquilia up, dark and disappointed, looking at them both- _no, looking at me_ \- looking at her like he just wasted a hundred thousand favours on her for nothing. He had been approving, _proud_ when she told him about being acquainted with Yani Reecher, a Junior Gamemaker, when Effie answered his question of _what do you know about the Hunger Games_ with a connection.

Effie thinks of her papa, saying _expand your portfolio._

“I’ve got to make myself interesting,” she says to herself, alone because Henn is away, apprenticing under his mother, trying to make the fifty-sixth Hunger Games one to be remembered. _You could be a Stylist! Or- or even an **Escort**._

Escort.

“Escort Euphemia Trinket,” she says, forcing herself not to frown – _you’ll get lines! –_ when it doesn’t come out right. “Escort Effie Trinket?”

Something clicks in her mind as she lays there on her bed, still half-made up from the last runway of the day’s face. Effie will be an Escort one day. _Expand your portfolio. Keep making connections. I’ll be an Escort one day._

An idea, an order and a dream.

The next year evolves into a strange bedlam of work. Effie keeps on apprenticing under her papa, focusing on the trends and the way her papa keeps order amongst his workers, finding their rhythm and integrating herself into it. At the same time, she continues modelling, partying and making connections – only one really changing, adding _spice_ to her life.

Mother is horrified.

“ _Natural_ modelling?” she shrieks, slamming down the niche magazine with such a force that it even gets her papa to lift his head from his plate. Galene fumes, though Effie can only see that because of how her face tightens, plastic surgery having rendered her mother’s face somewhat lacking in the miniscule movement department.

“On the side,” Effie points out. “It’s not taking away from my usual activities. It makes me unusual.”

“It makes you _strange!_ Even becoming a Red Light Star would be better than this!”

“Mother!” Aquilia gasps, dropping her cutlery with just as much learned over-exaggeration as Galene uses. “Red Light Stars are _respectable!_ My best friend is the current Diamond!”

“It’s really not as bad as it seems,” Effie puts in. “Natural modelling is about baring yourself, being confident in your natural body and there are strict rules at who can model – I am beautiful, Mother, even without accessorising. You should be proud.”

Galene doesn’t win the argument, mainly because Aquilia takes up most of her attention that evening, taking offense on behalf of the entire Red Light industry and also dropping the bomb that is her engagement to Archibo Mon. Frankly, Effie is rather pleased over the whole affair, her papa taking her aside to advise her on what other kinds of work she could do – though, mostly, it’s indirect talk about her taking on more responsibilities than an apprentice normally would at his company.

_Aquilia won’t be inheriting, then, it seems._

Effie wonders if she’ll be able to keep it up – being both a company manager and an Escort. To be fair, her papa is far from dead yet and would be able to work up until it suited him. Effie may not want to be an Escort for too long, anyway. Maybe.

Keeping up with her busy lifestyle takes its toll. For a few years, until she’s eighteen, Effie copes well enough, but her doctor doesn’t like how many sleeping pills she needs per month, even as an adult. A cut-off is set with her pharmacist and within a fortnight, Effie has to take the weekend off because she’s fallen ill, lack of sleep affecting her immune system.

“ _You could take boosters_ ,” Galene comments idly over the phone, because at this point, Effie has her own apartment now. “ _Though, they have a habit of making you gain weight_.”

“And that is not something I want to do,” Effie finishes, feeling miserable and light-headed. Wrapping up their conversation shortly, Effie lets her mother hang up before phoning her daddy, not quite sure why – just seeing his number in her contacts and missing him, slightly. _I’ve not seen him in months,_ she thinks as she waits for him to pick up.

“ _Euphemia,_ ” he greets, sounding vaguely annoyed. “ _Unfortunately, you call at a busy time._ ”

“Can I help?” Effie questions, meandering over to her window, tugging her dressing gown around her tighter, cold. It’s dark outside, sky dimly coloured from neon lights and she wonders what could keep him so busy this late.

“ _I am informed that you are ill,_ ” Coriolanus states. “ _No, though, in any case. It is all taken care of, except one part – the more elusive part, I’m afraid. You are in no state to be searching for it._ ”

“Thank-you for the consideration, Daddy,” Effie sniffs, frowning slightly at the sight of movement in the alleyway across from her building. _There’s not meant to be any workers around for another two weeks._ “I love you. I hope your business is concluded in a timely fashion.”

“ _Goodbye, my dear._ ” He hangs up and Effie keeps her eyes on the alley-way, more shadowed movement making her suspicious. Unless some of her neighbours were risking public indecency – again – the alley-way should have been empty.

The sudden sight of a staggering figure makes her jump.

“Gods!” Effie puts a hand to her mouth, heart racing. The figure – the _person_ – is clearly in bad shape, wearing only a set of boxers and in the streetlight, Effie can see the blood running down his back, dripping onto the cement below. For a brief moment, Effie is fascinated, staring at the man – for he is a man, most probably – before he drops to his knees, leaning his shoulder heavily against a lamppost.

“Gods,” Effie repeats, before looking at the clock on her wall. At seven pm, the Capitol is only just coming to life, but most of her street would either be gone already, away to dinners or parties, betting on which District Tribute would win the fifty-seventh Games in the next few weeks. Barely anyone would have broken out the hard drugs and liquor let. What- _who_ could injure a person so badly, so early in the evening?

She finds herself collecting her keys, grabbing a lime green towel from her bathroom and slipping on her only pair of flat shoes that aren’t slippers. It’s only when she’s in the elevator, the doors opening to the ground floor, does Effie pause to think, _what am I doing? He could be dangerous!_

But she can see him through the glass doors of her building and Effie exits, crossing the empty street and flinging the towel over his shoulders. He flinches, but otherwise doesn’t move, glancing up at her through a sheet of dark brown hair that Effie could easily see lightening up nicely with some targeted sun – the blood warps her perception, though. _I recognise him from somewhere,_ Effie thinks as she gets a funny feeling.

“What’s your name?” Effie questions him. “Is there anyone following you?”

“Should hope not,” he croaks, blood already seeping through the towel and staining the pink velvet rim of her left shoe. “He liked knives. I used one of ‘em on _him_.”

“After he used them on you,” Effie can smell it now, all the blood. It stains the street beneath him and the towel, too. Her eyes sting and she hurriedly wipes them, before realising with a start of horror that she is _bare-faced._ “I should phone for help,” she yelps, trying to turn to run back to her apartment complex, only for her wrist to be grabbed.

“Don’t. Don’t get help. Can’t go. Can’t…no hospitals.”

“But you’re _hurt,_ ” Effie says, worried and scared.

“How old are you, kid?” he questions, like she should know the answer. “I just told you I killed someone and you’re more concerned about my health.”

_I killed someone._

Effie stares for a horror-struck second, before turning it over in her mind. “Self-defence,” she replies, before using her free hand to latch onto _his_ wrist. “Stand, come on, get to my apartment. You can hide out with me until you know what to do, who to go to.”

An alarmed look appears on his face and briefly, Effie feels a swirling nausea in her gut as the drying blood crinkles with his skin, but she pushes it down – unlike her sniffles.

“No one is coming near me,” she states. “I’m ill.”

“…right,” he says, before he gets up, immediately staggering again, getting closer to her. Effie skids back a bit, tugging him along, their hands entwining. Effie tries to ignore the blood. It’s hard.

She forces him into her bath once they get to her apartment, determined not to make too much mess. _I’m getting new towels after this,_ she swears, thinking about redecorating her bathroom too. Her mystery guest puts on the plain water setting for her shower, letting it drizzle over him as he hisses in pain.

They don’t say much, Effie bursting with questions. For a little while, he just sits in her bathtub, bleeding. She gives him water and painkillers, otherwise staying in her living room, not wanting him to see her ugly, undone face. _The stress of seeing me like this has probably made him feel a lot worse,_ she thinks, knowing what Capitol men are like. Even Henn, her best friend, still gets a little awkward when he comes over before she’s started putting her face on.

Eventually, Effie puts on minimal make-up, sniffling and even coughing a few times – _oh dear, I’m only getting **worse**_ – before going to see her mystery guest.

“Effie Trinket, at your service,” she greets quietly, but confidently. He jolts violently, head shooting up and arm striking out sideways, banging against her tub, obviously having fallen asleep at some point. Effie jumps slightly, blinking at his violent awakening, his identity suddenly dawning on her as she sees his clean face.

“What- where-” he cuts himself off, shaking his head before letting out a small groan, eyes squeezing shut.

“You’re Haymitch Abernathy.”

“That I am, sweetheart,” he mutters. _There is a Victor in my bathtub. There is a **Victor** in my **bathtub**._ “What will keep you quiet about this?”

“Quiet?” Effie questions, before realising he’s talking about the wounds on his back. “Oh my. Who _did_ attack you?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” he replies cynically, hunching slightly. “Short version: Octavian Lo.”

“Really?” Effie questions, horrified. Octavian Lo, Capitol High-Roller, the man who very nearly fell from prestige when his toupee fell off, luckily before any cameras could capture the moment – it’s still talked about though, in rumours.

“He’s a kinky bastard and I killed him,” Abernathy replies. “I killed him.”

 _He killed him. Haymitch Abernathy murdered a Capitol citizen._ “You…it was self-defence,” Effie replies weakly. “He hurt you this badly and you killed him in self-defence.”

Abernathy looks at her then, frowning. “You never did answer the question. How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Eighteen, fuck. Well, I’m twenty-three. Not much difference. You’d have never been Reaped at the same time as me,” he says and Effie catches the slurring in his voice before understanding what he’d said.

“You need a doctor,” she says, crouching beside the bathtub, noticing his pale face. “Mr Abernathy-”

“Haymitch, my name is Haymitch,” he interrupts. “No hospitals.”

“Haymitch,” Effie starts again, tentative, “do you know your own doctor’s number, then? Or can I call a friend of mine? They’ll stay quiet about it, if I ask.”

 _Friend is stretching it,_ she thinks as Haymitch grunts, asking for her friend. _I won’t have any favours left after this from them._

Effie leaves the bathroom and gets on her phone. At first, Jamal thinks she’s calling for sleeping pills, having already heard her sob-story. Effie had originally said she’ll just try and wait it out, see what happens.

“No,” she says though, “it’s not about pills.”

When Jamal later leaves, Effie is candidly informed that she owes her a favour, because doing what she’d done tonight doesn’t make them even – if puts Effie in her debt. Unfortunately, Haymitch overhears it all.

“Not much of a friend, eh?”

“Not much of a friend,” Effie repeats, sniffling. “Are you staying the night?”

“Yeah, lets try that. No funny business, though, girlie. If you want this, you’ll have to pay for it,” he says, smirking and making a lewd gesture. Immediately, Effie flushes, embarrassed and affronted.

“Why would I even want to be with you? You- you’d probably burst your stitches, anyway.”

He raises an eyebrow at her retort, but he still helps her lays down half a dozen towels on the couch in case he bleeds overnight. When she wakes up in the morning, Haymitch is gone and a note is left in his place, stating that he threw the towels away and that he owed her.

 _Keep making connections,_ Effie thinks, knowing that despite the circumstances, this is the biggest favour in her pocket she’s picked up in a long time.

That year, none of Twelve’s Tributes make it. In fact, when Effie looks into it, it turns out that Haymitch is the only Tribute from Twelve to have made Victor in nearly thirty years. A feat to be admired – a feat that obviously got Haymitch _noticed_. Effie wonders if Octavian Lo wanted a different District to win – if he had money on another Tribute, perhaps.

“What do _you_ know about Octavian Lo?” her papa’s head shoots up when she asks, in the privacy of his office. Effie shrugs, but he doesn’t look away from her, not for a long while. Eventually, he replies, “No, he didn’t. How did you find out he’s dead?”

“I can’t say,” Effie replies.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“…the latter, more than the former.”

She has a similar conversation with her daddy, except he smiles approvingly of her refusal to give up her source and then proceeds to tell her how Haymitch Abernathy was seen to at the Training Centre – how her actions saved his life and how, ultimately, she _did_ help find his elusive prey.

“Perhaps, if I had been more clear, both of us could have been more easily benefited,” Coriolanus says, still smiling as he sips his wine. “I think it’s nearly time, my dear.”

“Time for what, Daddy?”

“For your grand reveal,” he says, as if he isn’t threatening the foundation of her life. Her mother’s voice – _they’ll try to seduce you_ – echoes in her head. Effie doesn’t _need_ that. “Aquilia is to be married next autumn to Mr Mon. Once they are settled, perhaps with a child, too, you should see to it that you yourself are appropriately established.”

“Alright,” Effie breathes in deeply, overwhelmed. “And then you tell everyone?”

“Indeed.”

The thought of _establishing herself appropriately_ makes her sick. Effie hasn’t even reached the peak of her career yet. Effie tries to think of how long it would take – Aquilia wouldn’t be having children any time soon, that was for certain. Maybe she would, in five years. _Twenty-three, I can have a significant other by then, can’t I?_

Effie thinks of Haymitch Abernathy then, twenty-three and saying, _not much difference._

Henn doesn’t help much, but does offer her an out in the form of a complimentary triad – he has a boyfriend, now, a guy working his way into the same kind of circles that Caesar Flickerman used to roam, before he became gloriously famous on his talk-show. Effie thinks about it, swirling it around in her head like she’d swirl a martini. _Effie, Henn and Dahrc._

“Whose name would we take?” Effie humours him, briefly.

“You’re the one going to inherit the fancy company, Euphemia,” Henn says teasingly. Effie smiles briefly at the thought of her best friend being called _Henn Trinket_.

“So much better than Reecher or Fein,” she jokes, but the conversation ends there, drifting into other topics.

Effie stops doing her extra-curricular modelling, as her mother likes to call it, involving herself more in _Trinket Glamour._ Her papa certainly seems set to give her the company, when the time comes. Modelling becomes…less important, truthfully. Effie can’t even remember why it _was_ so important – showing up her mother, perhaps, to say _I can do this as well._

Strangely, Effie spends more time with Coriolanus. She comes to the Mansion often enough that she even gets photographed entering, once or twice – which is enough to arouse suspicion. Effie has to cringe when they wonder if her father has found a mistress. Coriolanus similarly finds it distasteful and soon after, the respective news outlets that bothered printing such rubbish print polite retractions, apologising to their dear President who is much too busy running Panem for mistresses.

“Not twenty years ago,” Effie cheekily points out. Instead of scolding her, like he does the next week to Aquilia when she says the same thing, Coriolanus smiles slightly and asks her opinion on the latest musical sensation that his husband had prattled on about for half an hour yesterday.

Effie doesn’t ever see much of Raleigh. Her father’s partner is secret to everyone except Coriolanus’ direct family and the Mansion staff, it seems. Raleigh likes to slip in and out, usually paging through a book he has confiscated from someone – Effie liked to pretend he was secret Peacekeeper, in her younger days, with her father being the prince to Raleigh’s knight. An amusing memory, one she keeps to herself in case Coriolanus dislikes the comparison.

“You know,” he comes to stand at her side while she gets her coat on to leave that evening, an early start ahead of her come morning. “If you spoke your thoughts, rather than just agree with everything he says, you’d find your relationship improving.”

Effie eyes him carefully – _the pattern of his suit is two months out of date, the rose motifs are an unneeded, obvious reference to Daddy_ – as she buttons her collar. Raleigh looks tired, she notices, bags under his dark blue eyes prominent and telling.

“You know, you need to sleep more,” she says in turn. He chuckles, shaking his head.

“Say hello to Lelouch for me – tell him he needs to move his collection, if he wants to keep it.”

“…I’ll pass the message along,” Effie says and does, briefly questioning her Papa how he knows Raleigh and getting a twisted non-answer. _Never mind it all,_ she orders herself, after, instead watching her Papa – and helping, eventually – as he moves his forbidden book collection from the safe in his office to the safe in the dining room.

“No-one eats and reads at the same time, darling,” he says chipperly. “It’s a recipe for disaster.”

Two years later, one of her connections reaches out, gossiping and whispering about how Haymitch Abernathy chased away yet another District Twelve Escort. Effie follows it – and various other connections’ words – all the way to the Escort application in Victor Affairs. Why it isn’t in the Games Offices confuses her until the workers there explain something Effie had never known: Escorts are hired by Victors, not the Gamemakers.

Submitting her own application and portfolio takes a month, as Effie is forced through ‘standard checks’ – meaning a thorough background check is done, she has to sit through a medical examination and last but not least, Effie has to explain, in her own words, why she thinks she would make a great Escort for District Twelve. Unfortunately, Effie thinks the last thing is what may fail her – why Haymitch Abernathy would chose her with _that_ failure of an audio-video recording would be beyond her.

“ _You’re hired – get your ass to Twelve,_ ” Haymitch orders over the phone less than a day later.

“Excuse me?”

“ _You. Are. Hired. I don’t know or want to know anyone else. I know you well enough-_ ”

“We met under very auspicious circumstances, Mr Abernathy,” Effie interrupts, whispering harshly, heart thudding in her chest. _Why am I questioning this? Why, why, why?_ “I seem to recall you bleeding out in my bathtub.”

“ _That’s the point. You can deal with my shit. Also, I owe you a favour, don’t I? You want to keep this job once you get it? That’d be my favour, paid – and call me Haymitch. Mr Abernathy was my da._ ”

“Fine,” Effie replies, bursting with excitement. “I’ll come to Twelve!”

“ _Good,_ ” he grunts, before hanging up. There’s a long moment of silence before Effie squeals and does a small dance of excitement before pausing and redialling the last called number. “ _Haymitch Abernathy._ ”

“Why do I need to come to Twelve?”

Haymitch sighs over the line, before explaining that she can’t just show up on Reaping Day – she’s got to meet the Mayor of District Twelve, learn her duties, etcetera. Happy to know, Effie asks how long she’ll be staying. His answer is both confusing and damning.

“ _I don’t know, sweetheart. Depends how long you can stand me._ ”

“Is that a bet?” she questions.

He chuckles darkly. “ _Just come to Twelve. Bring your plainest clothes. Twelve hates all that Capitol fashion. Get someone to lead you to Victor’s Village – don’t, under any circumstance, wear heels and don’t lie and say you only own heels because I remember you wearing flats._ ”

“They, unfortunately, had to be disposed of, due to the stain your blood left on them,” Effie informs him tartly, still happy she’d gotten the job – and so quickly! “If you’ll excuse me, however, I need to arrange-”

He hangs up on her mid-sentence and it is a first. Effie assumes he had something to do – he did hang up already on her, to be fair, before she called back.

Effie makes arrangements – she ends her latest modelling contracts early and informs her family of the developments. Her papa is understandably upset, but Effie gently chides him – her apprenticeship should have formally ended years ago, never mind the limbo he’d left her in to avoid taxing her pay as a full employee.

Coriolanus congratulates her before she can tell him personally, of course, sending a bouquet of roses – Raleigh even sends his own little note, telling her that Haymitch is far more educated than he seems. Why he’d have to tell her that, Effie doesn’t know, but she bemusedly places the note in a drawer and smells the flowers, happy for the small familiarity.

But Twelve, oh, it’s not what she expects. The Peacekeepers that accompany her to Victor’s Village are so much _less_ than she’s used to. They joke and walk the paths in a lackadaisical manner, like there’s no trouble whatsoever and they have no need to be on their guard. It both worries and intrigues her. Not to mention, the town itself – dirty, full of thin, staring people who are far quieter than those from the Capitol. Their silence is infectious, even though her self-appointed guards talk easily between themselves.

District Twelve is also run down. Everywhere Effie looks, she sees poverty, broken things and some structures that don’t look suited to holding _animals_ , let alone _people_. Even the sturdiest of buildings – the Justice Hall – looks a stone’s throw away from crumbling, the glass windows boarded up and the doors swinging open in the wind. Victor’s Village is the only place Effie doesn’t feel will collapse any second – but it’s a ghost town.

Haymitch’s house is the only one that shows any sign of life.

“Oi!” one of the Peacekeepers shouts, banging on his door. “Abernathy! Get up, you lout – you’ve got a visitor!”

Scandalised by his language, Effie splutters briefly, before the door opens, Haymitch squinting at them all.

“Everyone fuck off, except Trinket.”

The Peacekeeper that banged on the door snorts, rolling his eyes, “Fucking Victors, we do a nice thing around here…”

“Yeah, well, thanks for that. Oh and you brought her bags…that’s a lot of bags,” Haymitch grimaces. “Great. Don’t fuck off, then, bring her stuff upstairs first. You remember Toka’s room, right?”

“The only clean one?” a different Peacekeeper questions cheekily, Haymitch rolling his eyes before disappearing into the house. The other Peacekeepers follow, leaving Effie outside, until she tentatively steps inside just as the group have disappeared upstairs. The smell is the worst part, she thinks, trying to find the source.

“What in all the gods…” Effie stares in horror at the bomb-site that is Haymitch Abernathy’s living room.

“Most of upstairs is good,” Haymitch says as he drops down onto a stained blue sofa, grabbing a bottle of what could only be some form of alcohol, sipping it. “Toka wasn’t impressed either. She cleaned my entire place, top to bottom.”

“And Toka was…”

“The Escort from two years ago,” Haymitch fills in. “I’ve gotten more experienced ones for the last few years, filling in the gaps. I didn’t hire them, that was all…” Haymitch trails off, shaking his head before sitting up, drinking more steadily. Effie would have thought he looked beautiful, if not for the beard growing steadily on his face, completely at odds with the rest of his physique – and obviously, the drinking, which he did so sloppily.

“I won’t be cleaning,” Effie states, narrowing her eyes. Haymitch ignores her, still drinking. “You will.”

He spit-takes, choking and coughing as the Peacekeepers come down the stairs again, saying their goodbyes, sniggering at Haymitch’s shocked face as the last slams the door. Effie waits until Haymitch has his breath back before continuing.

“If you don’t, I’ll call a cleaning crew in from the Capitol. Who knows what kind of dirt they’ll find in here,” Effie grimaces at her choice of words. “A friend of my fathers said you were an educated man.”

“Being educated has jack-shit to do with keeping clean,” Haymitch growls, glaring at her. Effie tilts her head as he stands, coming to stand menacingly in front of her.

“No. But your favour to me was apparently making sure I kept this job. Unless you want to keep owing me a favour, you’ll clean your house so I don’t quit right now.”

Haymitch growls again, twirling around and going over to a…very full bookshelf. _Books. Raleigh and my papa both have forbidden books. Does Haymitch too?_ Effie watches Haymitch take out a Capitol-esque book from the left, bringing it over to her and pushing it into her grasp.

“This tells you all the rules for the Hunger Games – specifically, the rules _we_ , the Victor and Escort, the Mentors, play by. You learn this book back to front, you hear me?” Haymitch demands, glaring and posturing.

“I understand,” Effie says, unfaltering in the face of this- this angry _beast_ of a man. Straightening as much as she can, Effie leaves the entrance hall, going upstairs to find her room. The following weeks are stressful, to say the least. Quickly Effie learns that to face Haymitch, she needs to either outwit him or shout him into submission – but Effie is a lady and ladies don’t _shout people into submission._

Figuring out how to be an Escort, of course, is her main priority otherwise, though clearly Haymitch stipulated she had to stay with him as a way to gauge her will. Effie refuses to back down to his unsaid challenge.

“ _I’m concerned for you, my dear,_ ” Coriolanus speaks to her over the phone, line crackling. “ _Mr Abernathy isn’t even inhabiting his home right now – he has been in the Capitol for several weeks._ ”

“I’m aware,” Effie replies. “I think it’s good, though. Being out of the spotlight, getting used to his improper behaviour and seeing Twelve for itself…despite the lack, I find it peaceful out here.”

Peaceful. Such an innocent word. Effie doesn’t find Twelve _peaceful_ – she is under-stimulated, craving any form of entertainment that can be found. Last week, she even had the patience – if not true confidence, too on edge with nothing to do – to go ‘undercover’, feeling utterly naked in the simple District clothing she’d donned, her strawberry blonde hair braided into an intricate bun in place of being curled into the latest trend.

‘Greasy Sae’ had taken one look at her and snorted. “Good start, but keep trying. You’re too clean, girlie.”

“ _Is there something I am unaware of, Euphemia?_ ” he questions, as if Effie is- as if Effie is having some form of _affair_ with the drunk of a Victor.

“No, no, Daddy,” Effie states, even as she thinks, _you know everything._ “Haymitch is…testing me.”

“ _Well, **Haymitch** certainly plays the long game, Euphemia. If he isn’t stringing you along for his own amusement, I would advise changing your permanent address from your apartment. Galene has been prattling on about the number of packages redirected from there to her home._ ”

“I’m not sure that is needed,” Effie replies, slightly put-off. “I’ll be staying in the Capitol again when the Games are over.”

“ _Of course, my darling._ ”

When Haymitch reappears in District Twelve a few more weeks after the Victory Tour, he is perfect again. Effie wonders why he goes to so much effort to keep his appearance, only to let it falter in Twelve. _Too clean_ , she thinks, wondering if being like a Capitolite takes its toll on his relationships with the people. When she asks, he pauses, giving her a scrutinising look.

“…yeah, it does. It doesn’t help that people close to me mysteriously die whenever I make a mistake.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Haymitch smirks at her, before lunging forwards, trapping her against the wall. Effie barely shrieks, having gone through this already twice over the last six months. His breath smells like alcohol, his gaze heady and dark.

“Do you know what happens to Victors after the Games, Trinket? Do you know what kind of sick things we’re forced to do? I fucked my way through a lot of Capitolites this winter – they would have held Twelve’s supplies at ransom, if I hadn’t.”

“You’re drunk,” Effie says, voice shaking. She doesn’t understand. _You need practice in making leaps of logic, Effie._

“I’m always drunk,” he replies hoarsely and the _pain_ of what he says rips right through her. She reaches up, hand cupping his cheek in a gesture that seems too familiar. “Do you want to fuck me too? Do you want to have your night with the infamous Quarter Quell winner, Trinket?”

“No, no, I don’t,” Effie says, because sex never passes through her mind unless it’s brought up. She’s always been like that, never falling into bed with people on her own merits. Whenever Effie has, it’s because she was enjoying her wine too much and didn’t think much of letting someone get her off in exchange for the same.

Or- or she was curious – curious to the point where instead of laying in bed after, making connections, she leaves, mind turning itself in loops. Effie always asks herself, _why am I so detached? Why don’t I feel warm inside like Aquilia says she does, when she has sex with Archibo?_ It’s a conundrum she doesn’t like to talk about, even to Henn.

“Then why are you touching me?” Haymitch questions her, leaning in till their foreheads touch. His hands stay pressed to the wall on either side of her head. Effie strokes her thumb over his cheekbone, finding it strange to feel smooth skin beneath her palm when she expects thick stubble.

“Has anyone held you, touched you in a way that is simply friendly?” Effie questions in return, because she knows something about being touch-starved, always wanting attention from her mother yet never receiving it in the same way she did from her papa. Haymitch looks at her and she makes sure he doesn’t look away as she wraps her other arm around his neck, hand in a fist as she locks herself into place, their chests touching and their breathing slowly synchronising.

Haymitch eventually tears away quite rudely, cussing her out and calling her a crazy Capitol woman. Deciding that proved her theory, Effie goes out of her way to sit closer to him when they eat together or sit in the living room with books or television – always bickering, when it comes to the telly and always silent when it comes to reading. Their knees brush and they have some short games of extremely competitive footsie, but eventually, what started as deliberate manipulation of a sort becomes habit – natural as breathing.

Then, of course, comes the Reaping and everything comes crashing down around her.

_I just sent two children off to die._

And they do die; they die horribly, in fact, the boy taking axes to the head and the girl facing slow torture from an arrow rammed through her side, not killing her, no – just _there,_ sticking through her, the wound becoming infected and poisoning her till she’s convulsing on the ground, the cannon sounding loud and clear.

Haymitch isn’t helpful. He isn’t considerate or even kind. “This is the Games. You’ve watched them since you were a kid, you knew that only one could come out.”

“But they’re _our Tributes_ ,” she gasps, crying into her handkerchief and if Haymitch thinks she doesn’t see the looks – the pitying expressions or worse, the rolled eyes from the other Mentors, the other _Victors_ – he’s wrong.

Effie stays in the Capitol when the Games are done. She sees a therapist, who sends her to see a psychiatrist, letting her talk, rant, cry and rage at how _her Tributes are dead_.

“Are you going back?” Galene questions, distant. “You could do so much better work here in the Capitol, working at _Trinket Glamour_. Lelouch could use you.”

“I’m going back,” Effie says, without really thinking about it. Then, of course, she does and realises it’s the right choice. She can’t just forget this – she can’t be wilfully blind. _My District_ , Effie thinks of Twelve and how coal dust always dirtied her shoes when she walked to Market. When Henn comes over and idly turns on a highlight re-run of the fifty-third Hunger Games, she looks at the faces of the Twelve Tributes and watches them die in the bloodbath.

 _My District,_ she thinks, _my Tributes, even long dead._

“Why in the world would you want to go back?” Aquilia questions, incredulous. “You have been away from the Capitol too long working as an Escort, sister. Stay, please.”

“I cannot,” Effie replies, before excusing herself to phone Haymitch. She asks, _what can I do? How do we make a Victor from one of our Tributes?_


End file.
